Lethal Hearts Where Killers Meet

CHAPTER 7: Top Fighter Steal

CHAPTER 7

The air in the arena was thick with the raw scent of sweat, dust, and blood. Cheers and jeers echoed off the rough-hewn walls, amplified by the flickering gaslight. It was Friday night, and the Royal Rumble was in full swing—a brutal, no-holds-barred free-for-all where recruits fought until one could no longer stand.

The first three fights had been a quick blur, ending with two combatants being dragged out, barely conscious. Lauren watched from the sidelines, her stomach still aching from Taron’s earlier punch, her mind focused only on the need to survive.

Now, Kaelen, the stoic recruiter, stepped into the center of the arena, his voice booming over the din. “Next contender! Taron!”

Taron, his jaw still slightly swollen from Lauren’s unexpected defiant punch, swaggered into the arena with so much pride with his entrance. He looked absolutely smug, dangerously confident, his eyes fixed on Lauren, and only at her.

He reveled in the chant of his name and the absolute certainty among the crowd that he would dominate. Taron was confident in his guaranteed win, but what he truly loved was the spectacle: the chance to publicly show off his superior strength by choosing and humiliating the girl who had dared to strike him.

His privilege as an undefeated fighter granted him the right to select any opponent from the audience. He held Lauren’s gaze for a beat too long, his lips curling into a triumphant, chilling smile—a stark warning of what was coming. It was a promise of vengeance: he fully intended to beat her to a pulp and shame her publicly for daring to strike him.

“He’s going to pick you,” Finn whispered beside Lauren, his voice grim. “He always does that to intimidate.”

Lauren didn't flinch. She met Taron’s hateful gaze, accepting the inevitable.

Kaelen held out a hand towards Taron. “Choose your opponent.”

Taron didn't even hesitate. His finger pointed directly at Lauren. "Her," He snarled, his voice loud enough to carry across the arena. I choose the newbie bitch.”

A collective gasp went through the crowd, quickly followed by a ripple of low laughter and murmurs of anticipation. It was a humiliating mismatch, a guaranteed spectacle.

“You heard him,” Kaelen stated, his eyes unreadable as he looked at Lauren. “Lauren, step into the arena.”

Lauren pushed past the trainees, who booed her strongly, and started walking toward the entrance of the podium arena, her head held high. She saw Jarek, Taron’s close friend, grinning from ear to ear. She was almost to the center when a figure detached itself from the shadows.

Ryle shoved past Lauren with noticeable force and effortlessly strode onto the podium, his expression completely unconcerned,

He was dressed in only his dark training trousers, his bare, leanly muscled chest gleaming in the light. He didn't look at Taron or Lauren; he looked directly at Kaelen, his face a mask of cold, entitled disdain.

“I invoke the Top Fighter Privilege,” Ryle announced, his voice cutting through the arena's noise, devoid of any warmth or emotion. “I call Top Fighter Steal.”

Silence crashed over the arena, sudden and absolute. Even Taron's smug expression was replaced by shock. Lauren, on the other hand, was also surprised by what was going on.

Kaelen narrowed his eyes, clearly displeased by the interruption. “Ryle,” He sounded strict as he called out his name, “you’re having the championship later.”

Ryle met Kaelen’s annoyed stare with chilling indifference. “I know,” he replied simply. “And I always win.”

“You know the rules.” Kaelen sighed inwardly, “You can only use a Steal if the fight is sanctioned and actively underway, or if you feel the match is a waste of training time.”

“It's a waste of training time," Ryle stated flatly, his cold gaze finally flicking to Taron, his voice heavy with disdain. “Taron will break the recruit in thirty seconds. Royal Rumble’s supposed to be fun, not boring.”

Taron gritted his teeth angrily as he looked back at Ryle.

“There is nothing to learn from a fight with her against Taron.” He then looked down at Lauren, his gaze chilling and judgmental. “I thought Royal Rumble was going to be fun for strong players, not for wimps.”

He walked past Kaelen without acknowledging her, positioning himself directly between them. “I’m taking that loser’s spot,” Ryle declared, looking Taron straight in the eye. “If you want to fight the best to be the best, you fight me. Not the scraps.”

“You can’t!” Taron bellowed, his voice thick with furious humiliation, but more anger towards Ryle, "She punched me earlier! This is my fight! You don’t own this place just because you are the best around here!"

Kaelen’s focus zeroed in on Taron. “You know the rule,” Kaelen countered stiffly. “Royal Rumble in this arena is not to be used for personal vendettas or settling grudges.”

“You chose a poor opponent for a personal vendetta?” Ryle corrected him, his tone glacial. "You chose a poor opponent for a personal vendetta. That's weak. And weakness gets punished."

Kaelen watched the confrontation, his expression heavy. The rule was clear, if rarely used. Ryle was the undisputed top fighter; his judgment on the value of a training session carried weight.

With a heavy sigh, Kaelen nodded. “The match is called. Taron, you will now face Ryle Kain." He looked at Lauren. “Lauren, you are dismissed.”

Lauren stood frozen, her mind reeling from the shock. Ryle had certainly saved her from a brutal beating, but the move felt less like protection and more like a public power play.

He asserted his dominance over the entire organization by humiliating Taron—and, in the process, delivered a double dose of humiliation to Lauren by branding her as weak scraps unworthy of a proper fight.

She watched as Ryle met Taron's furious, hateful stare. The air crackled with a new, terrifying tension. The original match had been a mismatch; this one was a certainty—a brutal, inevitable execution.

“I’m going to beat your ass!” Taron was furious, but Ryle was just cold, efficient, and ready to teach the organization a lesson in true power.

The bell for the Royal Rumble rang, a harsh clang that sliced through the lingering tension. Taron, breathing heavily, launched himself at Ryle. His attack was a furious, clumsy blur of fists—raw power fueled by humiliation and unchecked rage. He aimed for Ryle’s head, a wild, wide swing.

Ryle didn’t even bother to block. He simply swayed, a small, almost imperceptible shift of weight, and Taron’s fist sailed harmlessly past his ear. Taron stumbled, overcommitted to the blow.